I scored some U2 tickets from Monday's internet presale for Gillette Stadium. I have had a blast over the past year in Foxboro for a Patriot's win over the Broncos on Monday Night Football and for a Springsteen concert in which I arrived in style in a limousine (the third such ride of my life--I knew enough not to get in the front seat this time). The tailgating in both instances was supercool. I'm excited to go back. Aside from fond Foxboro memories, I also have a history with U2.
On a whim (and on a school night), I went to Providence on the opening leg of their Zoo TV Tour and caught them at the Civic Center with The Pixies. After scoring inflated tickets from a middleman (scalper, for reasons soon to become apparent, is a term I frown upon), my trio rushed into the arena fearing that we had missed the opening act. The moment I emerged, breathless, into the arena's bowl from one of those entrance alcoves, this song blasted. The Pixies broke up shortly thereafter, so it was a relief to hear them live and in their prime. It was one of my more memorable concert experiences.
My most memorable one came during the intermission. Thirsty, and upset that I had handed most of my money over to a scalper middleman, I devised a wicked plot based on my experiences working as a concessionaire. Having pooled our resources together, my trio purchased two beers. I instructed them to drink two thirds of the contents of one cup, which I promptly brought back to the stand with a histrionic complaint of the beer tasting like bleach. "Did you just clean the taps, or something?" It worked. When the second cup became two-thirds empty, we repeated the act of charlatanism again, and again, and again. If a problem arose, I implored the clerk: "Drink it! Taste it for yourself. It's disgusting!" Of course, I knew the busy clerk would never have done so. I also knew that of the 15,000 people in the arena we were the only degenerates ingenious enough to hatch such a scheme. It's not something the concessionaires were on guard about. We walked around the entire arena, acquiring in a Robin Hood-like fashion more than a half-dozen beers. I am perversely proud of the ingenuity of the scheme and the guts it took to pull it off (I was under the legal age for drinking stolen beers). If the venue can tag on an automatic fee for parking or for just selling you a ticket, wasn't it right and just for us to assume that beer was covered by the price of admission?
That was seventeen years ago this week. The statute of limitations has run out on my crime, so don't bother ratting me out to the authorities (I don't feel guilty, either!). That summer I partook in other illegalities at a U2 concert. When the band swung back through New England on the "outside broadcast" of the Zoo TV tour, I caught the shows at Schaefer, Sullivan, Foxboro Stadium. I invested in eight tickets, sold them at slightly marked up prices to friends, and, despite having no license, used the proceeds to rent a UHaul. Stocking it with an old couch, pillows, and coolers, the moving truck transformed into a moving party. It worked out great for everyone--except me. Unable to turn a profit as I had at earlier endeavors serving as a ticket broker, I waited outside the stadium gates for panicked concert-goers with unsold tickets. I bought at below cost. Walked deep into the parking lot to sell at above cost. And then repeated the process. Had a seller balked at selling below cost, I would ask if he wanted some salt. "Excuse me?" "You're gonna eat that ticket and I just wanna make sure it tastes good when you do." That either annoyed the seller into leaving or scared him into selling. "Anybody buying? Selling?" It was a good racket.
The shows themselves were grand. Just as they amplified their guitars and drums, U2 amplified their showmanship. Concerts are a mixture of sound and vision, and for the latter quality at least, U2's Zoo TV Tour couldn't be beat. Scores of television sets flashed faux-subliminal messages. The headlights of Trabants spinning from the rafters provided a light show. Bono adopted his larger-than-life "Fly" persona with rap-around sunglasses, shiny leather jacket, and slicked-back jet-black hair. Juxtaposed with the era's whiny and mopey so-called rock stars, who hid behind their microphones and stared at their shoes, U2's embrace of rock excess was refreshing.
I haven't seen U2 since the PopMart Tour, which, incidentally was the last time they toured outdoor stadiums in the United States. I caught them in 1997 at Washington, DC's RFK Stadium--a great place to see a football game, a good place to see a concert, an okay place to watch a baseball game, and a bad place to be at night. This time around there will be no free beer schemes or ventures in parking lot entrepreneurialism. I am older and, alas, so are U2.
Loved that beer scam.
Hmmmmm...beer.
